cloister

twinkling moths scurry from the bulb
carefully knit filigree cobweb
as an exclusive lampshade  serves
they bounce and leap
a circus extravaganza
in the colors of night
old houses chipped wood
smell of old books and history
then there’s the really busy moths
with patterned powder wings
the beautiful ones
gathered up in a bouquet
innocently placed
by the spider’s gothic cloister

philharmonic

tonight
i will not settle
for chords
electrically or naturally strummed
nor radios or streaming services
i shall not partake
of what you have created
Tesla dear
tonight
i am happy with the cutting of the air
watermelon slicing sounds
of the ceiling fans
or the cricket
dressed in green and brown velvet
chirping at my cat
tonight the city bred howls of coyotes
at 11:43 PM
is what i want to hear
maybe i might decide to cut up pictures and squoosh a paint brush full of podge unto my board
the dowry for the clipping that will marry it before Fall
tonight i want to hear the groans of pleasure and of pain
rise up from sewer pipes and circulate out of the city drain
my curiosity will sustain
an unknown hunger
that causes me to sit
ever so corpse like still
and hear the birds
crackling the dried leaves
of the tree trunk lobby
during their intermission
while attending
their own mourning dove
cooing philharmonic


questions

what is it like to sit in silence and hear the sounds of ocean waves playing

what is it like to face the sun and feel the wind cool and soft

what is it like to have lightness and to feel the colors of sea glass through my pores

and why is it that the dock doesnt move me to sleep and instead
i grip with my soul

afraid to drift away

self

orange peels fresh in the sink
my finger tips scented by their honey
outside the heat lectures the breeze
little birds lined up fluffy down ornaments
i ask myself
self what will you do today
and i answer i dont know
you do that everyday self
arent you tired
and i answer yes but not like how you think
the birds are still
the window thick but i can read their beaks i know theyre singing
and i say to self
self how about oatmeal
the Irish kind with a little cream and fresh peaches
starring with blank eyes
at the punk rock collage
stirring the cinnamon and sugar
my 4 year old self giggles out from the jar
pig tails tan corduroy dress
bare tiny foots and a Disney coloring book
self instructs me to stand
and i walk away from her

love songs

those songs sweet piano notes the ones sung by Adele hurt the most as they remind me of what dad did to mom

those words from boisterous guys showing off on bended knee their devotion perfection and digits of currency in worship of me will someday soon turn lethal

those men with delusions of being the righteous new species from Adam came and it won’t change that they are internally afraid of what their daddy did to their momma

from time unknown we flow and go turning around in circles a pull a push in darkness beams and the light sometimes is not that clear

even tears give up before our heart when we slip into children playing dress up me mommy’s shoes you daddy’s boots the familiarity of violence

time does not heal no matter how much it says in the public service announcement the warning signs the stacking cans of fire water rage combustion on music notes the peaceful hoax of love everlasting